Raah-e-ishq

CHAPTER 1

ZIMAL POV :

In the heart of the restaurant, the murmur of conversations interwove with the gentle clinks of cutlery, creating an orchestral backdrop that embraced the intimate space.

Warm light spilled from discreet fixtures overhead, casting a soft glow upon the textured walls adorned with rustic artwork. The atmosphere was a haven from the biting chill outside, a sanctuary where the cold couldn't penetrate.

Seated across the table was Sarah, her silhouette draped in a black sweatshirt that complemented a hijab of muted, nude-brown tones. The delicate fabric framed her face like a work of art.

The restaurant seemed to shrink in significance compared to the presence of this girl who meant so much to me. In the depths of her eyes, I discovered not just a friend but a world of understanding and connection.

As I raised the water glass to my lips, the light voices from neighboring tables ebbed and flowed, creating a harmonious symphony that resonated through the air.

Breaking the silence that lingered between us, I ventured to ask, "Your shift finished, right?" The nod from Sarah was accompanied by the gentle placement of her phone on the wooden table. "Almost," she replied, "I just need to pick up my things from the hospital, and then I'll go home."

A tentative smile played on my lips as I spoke, "I missed you so much last night. The flat was sounding creepy." Her laughter, light and teasing, danced like music, momentarily dispelling the heaviness of the day. "You're unbelievable, Zee," she playfully quipped, and in response, I offered a sheepish smile, the unspoken language of our friendship.

Sarah had become a part of my daily life when she decided to move into my flat upon joining St. Thomas's Hospital as a cardiologist. The paths of our lives had intersected through social media, and now we found ourselves sitting across each other in this restaurant, a testament to the unpredictable beauty of fate.

Shaking off the pleasant musings, I revisited the purpose that had brought us here. Inviting Sarah for lunch wasn't just about a shared meal; it was a precursor to a conversation that held the potential to shape the course of my life. The slow rhythm of the restaurant became the canvas upon which I started to paint the scene of my dilemma.

"So why did you call me here, hmm?" Her voice, a gentle reminder of the moment we inhabited, broke through the quietude. In response, I took a deep breath, the inhale carrying the weight of unspoken thoughts, and began to explain, "There's an exhibition going to be held where Pakistani photographers have to represent their culture."

The words flowed like a story, recounting the discussion with Mr. Brayan, and she listened with an attentiveness that bespoke years of shared confidences.

After almost 15 minutes of weaving the narrative, the food arrived, and the waiter approached with a sweet smile. The dishes were placed before us like culinary canvases awaiting exploration.

My plate held a symphony of creamy mashed potatoes and fish, Sarah's choice was an Alfredo pasta. The waiter left, and as our eyes met, Tasfiya questioned, "So, why don't you want to go?" A sigh escaped me, a prelude to unraveling the intricate threads of my reluctance.

"Sarah, I know it's my motherland, where I was born, from where my parents are, but I've never been there in the past 18 years," I confessed, the words lingering in the air like a delicate truth seeking acknowledgment.

A deep breath followed, and I continued, "I know I'm confident and have never been scared by anything, but it's not a random thing that I'll accept and go to a place where I know nobody." The vulnerability in my words hung like an unspoken plea for understanding, and in Sarah's eyes, I sought the comfort that only a true friend could offer.